


The blesséd language of flowers

by elf_on_the_shelf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: All of the Tropes, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But they are also very very fucking stubborn, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everybody Ships It, F/F, Fake Marriage, Flower Arrangements Competition AU, Happy Ending, I mean it, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Multi, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, There are so so many tropes, This fic is inspired by a meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29012907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf/pseuds/elf_on_the_shelf
Summary: Crowley has given up on her life in the big city and decided to retire early to the lovely village of Tadfield. She expected a run-off-the-mill early retirement. Maybe playing bridge with a couple of old ladies and maybe taking a part in organising some of the village fetes.What she did not expect was actually competing against the woman she had developed a crush on in the village floral competitions and hence that particular woman instantly taking a dislike to her.She also did not expect that for the sake of the village's reputation they will have to band together and participate as a couple for nationals, because why not...
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 17





	1. Rose bushes

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't as much a story as me trying to fit as many tropes as humanly possible in the chapters and just yeeting them into the void.  
> I'm serious. Any tropes you have - just throw them at me and I will see what I can do.
> 
> This fic has been born out of pure crack so please find something sturdy to suspend all of that disbelief on as I am going into it completely blind. I know nothing about flowers or flower arrangements or the competitions thereof.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley decides on early retirement. She wants peace and quiet - but - what's this? She meets someone who could well keep her on her toes? :O:O:O

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, [HolRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose) you are a darling! I would say petal but that could be a little bit on the nose considering the fic. Not saying that I won't use that later :))

Tadfield was by all accounts an idyllic little village bordering on plain picturesque. It was as far removed from the “dangers” of modernity as it could have been without looking positively like it would have been completely stilled in time sometime in the last century.

It had a village shop that sold all sorts, a bakery, a butchers’, a pub, hell, even a flower shop which was altogether odd since everyone kept such beautiful gardens. She could have sworn there was even a quaint little bookshop too but she wasn’t convinced. And of course there was the parish and the huge village green where there would be farmers’ markets every weekend and various fetes and celebrations every other fortnight.

_Oh and the cottages… the cottages were to die for._

Were you to ask her ten years prior in that completely stereotypical corporate fashion where she would see herself in ten years she would probably not have said in a postcard-looking cottage in rural Oxfordshire with a thatched roof and a plot for growing vegetables in the backyard. She would have probably not mentioned the floral wallpaper that looked as if someone’s nan had lived there either. Although, to be fair, someone’s nan had lived there. That’s why she got the place so cheap since after the old biddy died her grandson sold it to the first person who even inquired about it.

Luckily for her, that person happened to be Crowley.

She closed the door of her Bentley, shut her eyes and inhaled deeply.

Everything smelled so unbelievably lovely. It smelled like soil and freshly cut grass and honeysuckle. There were a couple of rose bushes next door that just had the sweetest perfume. Well, the fact that she could smell anything other than exhaust fumes was in itself a blessing.

She was not going to miss the city, of that she was absolutely certain.

Not the smells, nor the continuous noise, nor the crowds and especially not her awful fucking job.

Working as a stock broker had not been a fun job. Well, it had been a bit fun back when she had been twenty and everyone was all about that drugs, sex and rock’n’roll lifestyle even if she strongly believed she was the only one caring at all about the rock’n’roll bit. But it did get old really quick. Her co-workers were sexist pigs, her boss was a nightmare and the hours she had to keep were just insane after she got that promotion that put her in charge of dealing with the Asian market.

But hey, at least it paid well. Otherwise how could she afford to just wake up one day, think “okay, fuck this shit” and completely upend her life like that? Not a lot of people could afford to retire at forty and even fewer could afford to buy a house without any loans or mortgages.

She exhaled and opened her eyes.

 _Nope_ , she would not miss any of that. Not even one bit.

The movers had already arrived two hours earlier and were already done with all of the unboxing.

Crowley realised that she would still have a shitload of unpacking to do, but didn’t dwell on it just yet. She had some exploring to do first, she thought but stopped dead in her tracks as she felt someone staring at her. It was one of those situations when you just knew that someone was giving you the evil eye without even knowing where it came from, to begin with.

She started looking around only to spot two old biddies that seemed more invested in trimming their hedge than actually humanly possible and not looking at all conspicuous.

So she settled on staring directly at them until they couldn’t ignore her any longer and giving them a short wave and her toothiest grin.

If this was like that business with her downstairs neighbour from Mayfair then she already started regretting moving here. Oh God, was that woman insufferable. Mind the music, mind the guests, mind the hours she kept. She had at one point complained that she was bothered by the sound of Crowley’s heels on the floor. Apparently that was so loud she could hardly catch a wink of sleep. That bitch…

But then one of the old ladies peering at her from over the already perfectly cut hedge smiled back and waved her over.

She glanced right and left for a second thinking for sure that they had to wave at someone else. Then she pointed at herself.

That apparently was the cue for the other old lady to roll her eyes and scoff.

‘Yes, you,’ she said and waved over some more.

_O…kay?_

This was certainly a strange development.

Old people didn’t like Crowley that much.

 _Well_ … not a lot of people liked her to begin with.

She was flashy and brash and always said exactly what was on her mind and that seemed to tick people off the wrong way.

Maybe that was why she was forty and still single. Probably going to remain that way too.

She was well aware that you didn’t exactly pick up chicks in a village such as this one. Not that it mattered all that much since she was done with relationships. Absolutely done. Forever and ever. Old spinster, her.

Anyway, she shouldn’t pursue that thought at the moment.

 _Was she on the verge of meeting the first nice old ladies ever?_ Hmm, maybe not, since in her experience no old lady was ever nice. Or at least not to her at any rate.

Might as well rip the band-aid clean off since they were probably going to avoid her at all costs and spread shit rumours about her anyway.

It was maybe four hours later that Crowley managed to actually leave their house still chuckling slightly and ever so slightly buzzed.

The old biddies had been a blast, each of them their own brand of bastard which was something that Crowley very much approved of.

She got some very powerful couple vibes but that was not something that you brought up in polite conversation, or at least not with octogenarians.

One of them was tall and rakish with short-cropped white hair. It took a while for her to actually engage in conversation and actually smile at Crowley but when she did she was an absolute hoot and Crowley couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed that much. The shorter woman with salt and pepper hair had said she was a gentle soul once you got to know her but that, of course, had been said in a whisper while the other woman – Dottie – went to brew them all a cup of tea.

There had been biscuits too and a couple of madeleines and after her first cup of tea, the shorter lady – Henry - as she was called by the tall one, went and brought in the whisky.

 _Might as well,_ Crowley thought.

 _Okay_ , so maybe she should have stopped after her fist glass or even her fourth, she reckoned as she made her way – albeit in a very wobbly fashion – back to her own home.

_Home. Huh. Now that was a strange concept._

She waved at Dorothy and Henrietta as she closed the gate behind her and thought to herself that she might have actually hit the neighbour jackpot.

The fact that most of her belongings were still unpacked was not that much of an issue as she just faceplanted on her couch and instantly fell asleep as soon as she hit the pillows.

Next Morning Crowley did not much care about Previous Evening Crowley’s behaviour as she woke up with a horrible headache and an awful lot of actual work to do. It was just as well that she was not a breakfast person since there was absolutely nothing edible in her house at the moment.

Nevermind that. She’d go to the pub later and order an unhealthy amount of deep fried stuff to make up for it. She was used to this by now. And she was certain that she would get some top notch fish and chips in a place like this. For now she just had to pop a couple of pills and wait for the headache to go away which was a lot easier said than done when you were not in your twenties anymore.

Come late afternoon she did eventually manage to get up from the couch for good, take a shower and change clothes and venture towards the pub leaving the Bentley at home.

It still sounded so weird to call this place home.

The reason why she was going on foot was only partially getting to see the village – she had ample time for that. It was more of the “hair of the dog” variety as she knew herself well enough by now to know that she could only counteract the hangover with some more booze. But this time she swore to herself that she would limit herself to ale.

The people in the pub were okay-ish enough but very very predictable for people who had lived their whole lives in such a nice little village. There was lots of small talk since everyone wanted to hear about the newcomer who gave up living in London to settle here and she had been as civil as she could with all of them since they all seemed decent-enough people. But that was it. Decent. Nothing to write home about. Huh. Home. Guess this was her home now. She still couldn’t get over that fact.

And then she heard the most precious sound she had ever had the pleasure of hearing in her life which was someone laughing out loud. But it wasn’t any laugh. It was absolutely bloody perfection and she started scanning the pub left and right to find the source only for her eyes to land on a completely impossible woman sitting in one of the booths in the back and giggling at whatever her companion was saying with a delicate hand over her mouth and looking like something out of a 1940ies movie.

She wore a plaid skirt that reached her mid-calf and a sweater vest despite it being the middle of fucking April and the sweater vest was fucking argyle and yet… she looked absolutely divine.

Crowley spent the rest of her afternoon plainly ogling the woman before the barman nudged her and relied some information about the particular angelic creature and monthly flower shows.

_Flower shows._

Crowley could do that.

She liked plants well enough and had an impeccable sense of style.

And if she had to invest her time in learning all about flower arrangements, then so be it.

She planned to impress the hell out of this lady and apparently she still had a week until the monthly flower arrangement competition happened.

It seemed like something that could be easily done.

***

The monthly floral competitions were something that kept Aziraphale on her toes and she would be lying to everyone, herself included, if she ever said that she did not enjoy winning each and every one.

Which was a bit of a problem this particular weekend apparently as someone new rolled in for the competition and not only did they do a stellar job but actually managed to get first prize.

Aziraphale thought about pouting for a bit but that was beneath her. Instead she crossed her arms and just gave the newcomer the stink-eye.

That was _far_ more dignified.

 _Who the hell did this woman think she was_ , wandering in _HER_ village and winning _HER_ floral arranging competition?

It just wouldn’t do.

The lanky woman that honest to God had no business here sauntered over with a gait that made Aziraphale think a string of thoughts that would have made the vicar cough politely at her and then throw her a LOOK™ at Sunday service. Not that she would ever impart her opinion onto the vicar.

She had absolutely nothing against people who made their honest living out of the oldest profession known to man (and woman, she supposed) but this particular one was taking this to the next level.

‘Hey there, sweetcheeks,’ the woman called out and smirked at her. Smirked. _What?_ Not to mention that being called “sweetcheeks” made Aziraphale go into full-on fussy mode. _How dare she?_

‘My name’s Aziraphale. Aziraphale Fell,’ she tried to draw herself to full height. Which was not altogether effective judging by the fact that this other person was a great deal taller than her even without those preposterous heels.

‘Gosh. That’s a mouthful,’ the woman said as she measured Aziraphale up and down with a look that should also not be mentioned at Sunday service. _The absolute nerve._

She even lowered her sunglasses to give Aziraphale a proper look-at. Which, for some reason, made Aziraphale even more angry. Or whatever it was that that tightness in her chest was. _Who in heaven’s name wore sunglasses on such a downcast day?_ Not to mention that she felt like she was being measured up. _Like cattle._

The wink at the end of that long look did not help either. _Not even a little bit._

 _Anyway, she needent think about this rude stranger for long, need she?_ She was probably one of those city people, feeling all high and mighty as they came to examine their little village floral arrangements for a laugh and decided to call the whole thing “quaint” and then be off in their loud cars and and…

Aziraphale didn’t know what her precise point was but she knew that she had one.

She liked her quiet village life with Sunday service and neighbours who all knew each other.

She liked going everywhere riding her old velocipede. Granted, it had not aged like fine wine, more like fine milk, but Aziraphale didn’t like going fast anyway and she usually stopped every other two houses and had a chat with this old lady or that. Old ladies seemed to like her a lot.

And she especially liked her garden where she spent most of her days when she was not running errands for whoever needed them or helped out in church or didn’t lose track of time in the village’s little bookshop which unfortunately had long ago ran out of books still left unread. But no matter, reading them over and over again was also a different kind of joy, much like greeting old friends.

What she did not like was when people from London came over whenever they had the flower competitions and there were filming crews and loud noises and a lot of cars. And when the day was over and the people and the cars were gone the village lawn was always left covered in rubbish.

And she really did not like this cheeky stranger.

She huffed at her and was off.


	2. Bells of Ireland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could the courting game be more difficult than first expected? It can indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as ever, go to my amazing beta, [HolRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose)!

_Huh_. That hadn’t gone at all according to plan, Crowley pouted as she looked after that pastry puff of a woman not fully comprehending what had gone wrong.

But her confusion was short lived – or at least easily interrupted by the flurry of excitement that the organiser of the competition was directing her way.

The woman was… how to put it to best describe her? _Too much._

 _Not in a bad way_ , Crowley quickly mentally added as she seemed to be quite morbidly fascinated by the petite bundle of colours that cooed all over her. And, _was that a wig?_ If not, then Crowley definitely thought someone should call the people in the hair dye business and curb their enthusiasm a bit.

And that was her speaking for gingers in general.

‘Oh love, that was absolutely stunning if I say so myself. I mean we’ve always had nice arrangements. Aziraphale, that darling girl always outdoes herself. Wins first prize and everything. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her be defeated before, now that I think about it,’ the bundle of colours said and seemed to consider this with a long and pink-painted nail scratching her chin.

Crowley completely glossed over the fact that this lady had called a forty-year-old woman “a girl” as her mind wrapped around the significant piece of information just offered to her on a silver platter.

Aziraphale didn’t only take part in these things for jolly good fun. She played to win.

And Crowley had just been a monumental idiot and had taken that away from her thinking that was the right way to impress her with her mad gardening skills.

_But then again what else was new?_

_Oh no whose petard is this I’m being hoisted by? Mine. As fucking usual._

Crowley groaned.

She needed to make this better. And she had the perfect plan for that.

She’ll just lose the next one. Not even that, but make a monumental arse of herself in the process. Have Aziraphale be the glorious victor and then, maybe afterwards ask her out for drinks. That should work. _Shouldn’t it?_ She saw no reason why it shouldn’t.

The garish lady was still talking to her.

‘Hm?’

‘I said my name’s Marjorie, love. Marjorie Potts. But everyone around here calls me Madame Tracy.’

_Madame, huh? Fancy that._

This little village seemed to be far more interesting than she had ever envisioned.

She felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole but instead of Wonderland she seemed to have landed in the most peculiar village in the English countryside. If she hadn’t known any better she’d have said that all of these people were either the cast of a prank show or a particularly comedic - even if not award-winning - soap.

She tried her best to formulate a reply before being assaulted by a barrage of coo-ing yet again but spotting Henry and Dottie across the lawn got her out of her predicament soon enough as she managed to convey her message by a series of incomprehensible strings of sounds aided by some pointing.

And then immediately darted across the lawn waving animatedly at the two old biddies.

She didn’t think she’d ever been as happy about some octogenarians’ company as she was today.

‘Oh hello, love!’ Henry spread her arms wide in what was clearly an invitation to a hug. Which of course Crowley couldn’t have said no to. You never said no to old people. Never knew when they’re gonna drop dead and you did not want that on your conscience.

‘Hi,’ she managed after being freed from the shorter woman’s embrace. _Damn_. For an eighty year something she sure had a strong grip on her.

Dorothy acknowledged her with a nod and a grunt. Something much more up Crowley’s own alley, so she nodded back.

They had obviously been here for the competition and had seen how the whole thing panned out.

Not like there were a lot of things to occupy your time with in this small and peaceful village. A slice of heaven on earth if not for all of the “colourful” characters.

‘You did a wonderful job there, love! I’ve never seen anything like it, to be honest.’

Dorothy snorted and turned towards her partner.

‘Don’t ever tell Aziraphale that or it would be the end of your little afternoon teas. All of that shortbread? I imagine you’d miss that.’

‘Dottie!’ the shorter woman exclaimed.

And then they both delved into a healthy dosage of couple bickering.

Crowley looked at them with a slight scowl. She wanted this in her life, sure enough, but she wasn’t about to actually admit it and seeing other people being lovely and domestic together just rubbed her the wrong way.

And then soon enough the colourful-looking lady headed their way and was apparently thrilled that Crowley already knew the other two women.

And then they all went to the pub.

Crowley had no intention of doing that but she was all but dragged there and she had to admit that her plans for the afternoon had involved alcohol anyway. _This was surely better than her drinking by herself at home, right?_

And then the afternoon turned into evening and then into late night and she was absolutely and utterly sloshed. Crowley had to admit that the old ladies were a blast and she hadn’t had this much fun in ages.

Apparently she had promised them to do whatever it was she was supposed to be doing the next day as she heard a loud knock on the door sometime in the afternoon and groaned.

She got up from the couch that she had ended on the previous evening and assured Henry she’d be ready in ten, much to the older woman’s glee.

How the ever-loving-fuck did she look so chipper after they had all but attacked Harold’s prime reserve of “the good stuff” the previous evening, she had no idea.

And then she let herself be paraded throughout the small village and made the acquaintance of nearly everyone of import. Not that she remembered any of the names.

Everyone seemed pleasant enough. But her heart wasn’t in it.

That was to say up until she noticed the fussy looking blonde step out of the bakery and casually waved over. She even chanced one of her prize-winning smiles.

She got a “harrumph” in return and the blonde turned on her heels walking away from the small party of three old ladies plus Crowley quite deliberately.

Crowley’s face fell.

Time passed by and no matter what she did she never seemed to come into the woman’s graces.

She even befriended the vicar, for crying out loud! And God was not something she very much believed in. But she had heard on the grapevine that Aziraphale religiously (heh) went to Sunday service and that she was quite devoted when religion was concerned.

So she did that.

Aziraphale just scowled at her when she saw her joking around with the vicar.

_What was that about?_

No matter. She had her plan and she would put it in motion at the next flower arrangement competition.

If Aziraphale didn’t like losing then she wouldn’t. Crowley didn’t much care either way. So that would turn out to be a huge success. _Right?_

_Wrong._

_Apparently._

She had botched the entire show on purpose and managed to be proclaimed last, fact which she accepted with too wide a smile.

And then afterwards she headed Aziraphale’s way and commented on how nice her stand looked and “do you maybe wanna grab a drink later?” to which she had received a very confused “why would I ever do that?” in return.

_Okay. This was not at all how it was supposed to go._

Crowley had done the best she could to befriend all of the people that she thought Aziraphale liked. That only seemed to earn her narrowed eyes and occasional sneers.

Then she actually went in the village for all of their little happenings. She even volunteered for a fundraiser for the church. Her! Of all people!

And Aziraphale just scowled some more.

And now she deliberately lost the competition only for Aziraphale to smile smugly at her and tell her, not very politely, mind you, that this was what she had been expected from the very beginning and it was better for everyone involved if Crowley gave up the competition altogether. She even quoted “beginner’s luck” for a second before managing a very self-righteous “hm”, drawing herself up and leaving the green, Crowley still staring after her.

She felt like she’d been slapped, honestly. She didn’t even give two shits about flower arrangements. She had only started doing them because of Aziraphale. But if losing to her and proving her good intentions wasn’t good enough, she knew precisely what she was going to do.

At no point in her life had Crowley taken a challenge sitting down and now was not the moment to start to, either.

_Alright, angel. Have it your way. Two can play at this game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bells of Ireland = "good luck" in the language of flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> The whole fucking fic is based on a meme - please do not judge.  
> Also, this is the meme.  
> And it is obviously Aziraphale :))
> 
> [](https://postimages.org/)  
> 


End file.
